


Puzzles and Politics

by beargirl1393



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Gen, Kid John, Kid Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2135007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beargirl1393/pseuds/beargirl1393
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has gotten himself into trouble once again. Mycroft needs to deal with the aftermath, but he'll need help to do so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second fill for the trope bingo challenge on Let's Write Sherlock. It fills the De-Aging square on my card.

Mycroft wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened.

Admittedly, Sherlock had always been more than fond of experimenting, and his experiments were rarely ever harmless, but Mycroft had never expected anything like this. Only Sherlock could turn an entirely routine day into an unmitigated disaster.

Unknown to anyone (and he would need to start inspecting Baskerville personally, if his brother was able to not only break into the facility and emerge unscathed but also steal chemicals without notice), Sherlock had taken a sample of a chemical out of curiosity, taking it back to Baker Street to study it.

And, in the course of Sherlock’s studying, he had somehow managed to not only ingest the chemical but had also fed it to John Watson as well. Ordinarily, with the more typical experiments that his brother ran, nothing would have come of it. The two may have lost consciousness for several hours, or had an unexplainable (unexplainable to John, as he didn’t know that he was being fed an unknown chemical) rash, but that would have been the extent of the damage.

Now…he sighed, shaking his head as he looked at the two toddlers in his living room.

John Watson, age three, was frowning in concentration as he attempted to put together a puzzle of a dog, while Sherlock, age two, was writing (if the nonsensical scribbles on paper could be called ‘writing’) something that was more than likely a monograph about pirates or bees. Mycroft remembered his brother at age two very well, and both subjects had held Sherlock’s interest until he was old enough to discover crime.

Mycroft himself was sitting in his armchair, watching the two toddlers who had been his brother and brother’s friend, considering his options. For many, obvious, reasons, their families couldn’t know. Harriet Watson was hardly a concern, as she was usually too inebriated to concern herself with calling her brother. Mummy and Father would be slightly more difficult, but as they were used to not hearing from Sherlock for two or three years at a time, they had time to reverse this.

Anthea had updated both men’s websites, simply stating that they were in the middle of a complex case and thus unavailable to take any cases at present. It wouldn’t do to have clients consulting a two year old, after all. No one had the necessary clearance to know what had happened.

That also meant, unfortunately, that the list of people who were able to take care of the two boys was very short. He had too much to do, especially with the upcoming elections in…well, he had too much to do to take care of two toddlers. He needed to find someone he trusted to do so, however, which only left him with two options.

* * *

 

 “You want me to what?” Anthea asked, looking from her boss to the two toddlers who were currently napping, curled together like puppies.

“I do not believe that I stuttered,” Mycroft replied calmly, as though this was a truly typical request. All in all, with everything she had needed to do for him over the years, this really wasn’t too unbelievable.

“You want me to find a replacement for me, temporarily, while I move into your brother’s flat and care for both him and Doctor Watson with the assistance of their landlady?” she asked incredulously. Still, it wasn’t the oddest thing she had needed to do.

“You are the only one with the necessary clearance, and who is capable of the necessary discretion,” Mycroft replied, looking at the sleeping children briefly before refocusing on his assistant. “Their landlady has been sworn to secrecy as well, but with you there it will minimize instances when she does let something slip.”

“What is my cover story?” she asked. Mycroft’s mind was made up, which meant that she either needed to agree, or quickly find a good counterargument. Waiting too long would just give him more time to come up with his own counterarguments.

“A single mother with two children,” he answered. “Two different fathers, obviously. Mrs. Hudson was a friend of the family, and she is allowing you to stay in the flat while John and Sherlock are away, until you get back on your feet.”

Anthea sighed, taking the file he handed her and looking through it. Everything had been planned out, even where she should apply for a new job. It seemed logical, but… “I know nothing about children,” she protested.

“You once mentioned having four sisters, two of them younger than you,” he remarked. “And all four of them have at least one child. Did you never care for any of them?”

“I am rather busy ordinarily, and have little time to be a babysitter,” she said. That was ignoring the fact that she had a poor relationship with her family to begin with. “So no, I have never babysat for them.”

“Think of this as practice for when you have your next family reunion,” he replied, out of patience. “Anthea, you will watch over my brother and Doctor Watson with the assistance of their landlady until such time as the cure is found and can be administered.”

“Is there no possibility that the landlady can watch them herself?” she asked. It was a weak argument, she knew that, but it was the last one that she had.

“If any of my brother’s enemies discover his current condition, do you believe that one aging landlady would be capable of stopping them?” Mycroft inquired.

Anthea sighed. That, of course, was a valid concern. She was well equipped to deal with any threat that would arrive, but Mrs. Hudson would be unable to do so. “My assistant will be able to handle my workload temporarily, and you may send me the more classified matters that you will need my assistance for.” Otherwise, she may well go mad. She wasn’t the type to be a stay at home mother, although she had nothing against those who chose that option. She simply didn’t have a maternal bone in her body.

Anthea shook her head as she left to go to her flat to pack her belongings. She would need to buy clothing, books, and toys for her ‘children’ as well.

This morning had been the start of a perfectly ordinary day. She should have known then that something was going to happen, but even then she doubted that she would have been able to guess this. Sherlock Holmes and his friend were both children and she was entrusted with their care until Mycroft was capable of finding a cure. Just another day when you worked for Mycroft Holmes.


	2. Flying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to do a second chapter for this to fill my fourth prompt bingo square, 'wingfic'. This is a slightly different spin on that trope. John and Sherlock haven't spoken much yet because I'm still working out how much they should be able to say. Sherlock may be a genius, but he's also a two year old, after all. At the moment, I figure he's about at John's level, speaking wise.

It was, surprisingly, easier than anticipated to convince Sherlock and John to go with her.

Neither of them remembered anything, which thankfully meant that she wouldn’t have to field questions about where their parents were (an especially tricky question in John’s case as Anthea knew his parents were dead), or why she was taking care of them instead of their parents. Sherlock did ask who she was (and although she wouldn’t tell anyone, she thought his lisp was adorable), and she told them both that she was their mother. Adoptive, of course, because not only did the two look nothing alike, they looked nothing like her, and even though they were toddlers, she wasn’t putting anything past Holmesian intellect.

It had been two days since they changed, and so far things were going well. Mycroft sent her work to do while the children were napping or asleep, and thus far they hadn’t caused too much trouble. John’s bedroom had been transformed into a bedroom for both boys, as they wanted to stay together, and Anthea took Sherlock’s room. The skull had been taken off of the mantle and was now sitting on the dresser in Sherlock and John’s shared bedroom, as Sherlock said it helped him think. Anthea had heard him talking to it last night after John was asleep (another thing which she would deny she found adorable).

Now, the boys were playing in their room while she worked on a particularly tricky problem for Mycroft. No one could plan when a crisis occurred, of course, so she had bargained with the boys that if they played quietly for two hours, she would take them to the park. That had been an hour ago, and so far they were doing well. She had nearly resolved the complications and was in the middle of emailing her solutions to Mycroft when she heard a loud thump from upstairs, as though two small bodies had landed on the floor, followed by childish giggles. Frowning, she went up to investigate.

* * *

 

“Are you sure?” John asked, looking over at his new friend (his new brother?) curiously. It sounded like a good idea, but he wasn’t sure if it would work.

“Uh huh,” Sherlock replied, adjusting his wings. “We even used feathers from the pillows!” Their new mother likely wouldn’t be too pleased about that, but they could worry about that later. Their wings had needed feathers, otherwise it would have just been cardboard. He and John had found glue in one of the boxes in the closet (which was where the cardboard had come from), as well as markers. Sherlock’s ‘wings’ were black with blue near the tips, while John’s ‘wings’ were yellow.

It had been John’s idea to make wings out of the cardboard box, but Sherlock was the one who used the scissors to cut open the pillow and glue the feathers onto the cardboard wings. “Birds need feathers on their wings,” he pointed out. John couldn’t argue with that, and so they spent the better part of an hour cutting out the wings and gluing on the feathers. Both boys were nearly certain that Anthea didn’t know the scissors and glue were in the closet, otherwise she would have likely put them up so they couldn’t get to them, so they kept looking at the door at first. Still, when ten minutes passed without their guardian coming to scold them, they decided that they were safe and set to work with renewed vigor.

The end result was the pair of them standing on top of the bunk bed (Sherlock had wanted the top bunk and John hadn’t minded), their wings strapped to their arms with strings. The box had originally been where the adult John had stored odds and ends, although neither toddler knew that, so they had been able to find plenty of things for their project.

“On three?” John asked, Sherlock nodding. “We gonna fly?” That had Sherlock shrugging, because he didn’t know if they would or not, but it was going to be fun finding out. John seemed to consider that a sufficient answer though. “One. Two. THREE!”

On three, both boys jumped off of the bed, flapping their ‘wings’ madly as they fell to the floor. They landed in a heap on the remains of the pillow, and despite the fact that they were bruise from their fall, both boys looked at each other and started to giggle.

* * *

 

Neither noticed at first that Anthea had arrived, and for her part Anthea was trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

“Sherlock, John, what on Earth have you been doing?” she asked finally, arms crossed over her chest. She was slightly amused at the sight, the pair of them wearing cardboard wings with feathers glued to them kneeling amid the mess they’d made of their room, giggling like…well, like children. She had taken a picture to keep (and to show them once they were adults again), but now she needed to be serious. They could have been hurt, although luckily it seemed that both boys had escaped much damage.

John and Sherlock stopped giggling immediately, looking up at her with wide eyes. They scrambled to their feet, tripping over each other to try to explain. Anthea just shook her head, sighing lightly. She should have checked what was in that closet better, then they wouldn’t have had the scissors, glue, markers, or string. Still, they should have known better.

“You two are going to help me clean this up,” she said sternly, both pairs of eyes dropping. “Then you are going to apologize to Mrs. Hudson for ruining one of her pillows.” She knew that the elderly landlady wouldn’t mind (and God knows that the adult Sherlock had caused much more damage to the flat in his time), but the point remained.

“The park?” Sherlock asked, looking up wide eyed. Anthea didn’t look too mad, but she had asked them to be quiet while she worked if they wanted to go to the park. They had made noise and interrupted her work, so would she keep them home?

Anthea sighed, looking down at the two. They looked like they knew they had done something wrong, and she doubted they would do it again anytime soon (although they would likely think up something else. She didn’t doubt that). “We’re still going to the park. You have to help me clean up and apologize to Mrs. Hudson. Then I have work to finish, and if you two are quiet while I finish my work, then we can go.”

Later that night, once both boys were safely in bed, she would send the picture to Mycroft. She smiled as she looked at it, the small dark haired toddler sitting beside his small blonde friend, both giggling madly over their ‘experiment’ with flight. _Some things never changed_ , she mused. _Adults or children, John and Sherlock would always get into mischief together._


End file.
